Afterlife
by Rach3
Summary: Lennox wades through grief - post-"Double Agent" - CM challenge ficlet


**"Afterlife"**

Author: Rach  
Feedback: aliasrlm@yahoo.com  
Rating: PG

Summary: Lennox wades through grief - post-'Double Agent'.  
Spoilers: Set after "Double Agent"  
Disclaimer: 'Alias' and its characters d"o not belong to me. I make no money by writing 'Alias' fic. And I think we all know that.  
Notes: For the Cover Me May '03 Challenge. Thanks to Karen for the beta.

* * * *

There are a thousand ways to destroy a man, and this, you muse, is but one of them.

At first, you think you're drowning. Bursting lungs, slippery limbs, strangled screams that are so gut-wrenching they just can't belong to you. Your water is a dull gray, not the postcard-perfect expanse of tropical turquoise you were expecting. It is colder than anything you've ever imagined - a blast of arctic air a thousand times over – and then suddenly it's boiling…with you in it. You watch in horror as your skin puckers and blisters, and your legs snap off from your body like you're nothing more than a fire-roasted twig. Your eyes shrivel and you're in a sizzling darkness, flames taking another piece of you with each passing second. And your useless fingers curl into themselves, rendering it impossible to tear at your throat to keep from wailing. 

But you're not drowning. No, it's much worse than that. Although you're only a few hundred feet from the picturesque waters of Fiji, you're in hell. Because it's a nightmare you live through every night. Because when you wake - sweat drenching the bed, pulse racing - you're reminded that you're alone.

She's not here, by your side. Her legs are not lazily entwined in your lime green sheets. Her smile isn't dancing behind the bed's mosquito netting. Her short nails aren't teasingly flicking over your tense muscles as you labor to catch your breath. She's not here to tell you you'll be all right, and that eats away at you a little more each morning when you wake.   
  
A bitter, stale taste coats your tongue – it grows rapidly, exponentially, until nothing vanquishes it. Toothpaste, mouthwash, a bottle of rum – they're all useless to combat this residual effect of her absence.

You'd cry, but you're too exhausted. You'd scream, but your throat is too raw from the combination of dry heaving and two weeks of constant nightmares. You'd bitch, moan, complain and whine, but it's not in your nature. No, you like to handle your grievances with precise action – with a foolproof plan and a stockpile of ammunition.

If you could kill this grief, you would. You want to strangle this feeling, as if you'd be whole again by cutting out this natural process. Emotionless, sure, but whole. Not this shell of a man who feels too much, hurts too much, hates too much. 

You've learned, though, that you can't decapitate grief – it's not a solid figure you can dispose of…or reason with. It hits you, disables you like a sucker punch to the gut, at any given moment. Like when you walked the beach yesterday, feeling hopeful for the first time in days, it smacked you down with a blinding reminder of the time she read aloud from the travel guides, cocking a smile while verbalizing her desire to escape to warmer climates.

"We could rent a boat," she whispered conspiringly, her slender index finger pressing a black-and-white photo of a mile-long yacht you could never afford. "We could sail from New Zealand, you know." You chuckled and ripped the book – all bright blues and glossy yellows – from her hands, peppering the bridge of her nose with kisses. "We could do anything we want," you said, the sound of your voice muffled by her soft skin.

And you believed it, at the time. You both could do whatever you dreamed – the world was just a string of golden opportunities that were waiting for you to finish wrapping up those loose ends in Berlin. But now…now the world is a smirking, jagged-edged trap that holds nothing but bitterness and heart-numbing memories of the woman you loved. 

Despite how tempted you are to succumb to the overwhelming waves of desperation that pass through you, to wrap yourself in it and disappear between its folds, you're also haunted by this nagging need to claim revenge, to mercilessly hunt down those responsible for her death. You want to have the satisfaction of holding a gun to a man's temple, to hear him whimper and plead for his life as you grant him nothing but a slow, tortuous death. 

Most of all, you want the satisfaction of gazing into your superiors' faces and smiling as you turn to walk away from the CIA, once and for all. On your own terms.

But you can't do it alone – yet - and you can't do it while you're still in this state. While grief grips you with iron claws, you're at its mercy. __

So you wait five minutes before sliding off the bed and forcing a glass of cool water down your throat. You wait five more before fishing your cell phone out of your suitcase. And you spend yet another five staring at the number you're about to dial.

You finally press the green button, the action sending a dull tingle down your spine. You can't tell if it's excitement or dread, but either way, it's better than anything you've felt in days.

A familiar voice answers and you lick your lips, realizing your mouth is parched and you haven't spoken to anyone since you checked in to the resort.

"It's Lennox," you say, your voice unsteady and quiet. You shake your head quickly and clear your throat. And then you say, "I'm only coming back if I can participate in bringing to justice the people responsible for Emma's death." 

It's an extraordinary accomplishment - sounding businesslike when your heart is fractured into slivers - but you do it. And you even manage to say it all without throwing in any unnecessary adjectives or expletives or hateful descriptors or the word "avenge." 

He's talking, listing the reasons it wouldn't work, why you should be assigned to a number of different cases, but you're not listening. 

Instead, with scarlet streaking your sight, you rush ahead with, "Sir, although I respect your opinion, I think – no, I _know – that this operation would benefit from my extensive field training. I would work nonstop on this op. I know it, you know it."_

He's quiet for a moment and you know you can turn him in your favor. You have to say one more thing, whether or not it's considered appropriate, and then he can decide.

"Sir, you know I loved Emma." Saying her name causes you to wince wistfully and you pause, almost expecting for him to reply. He doesn't – he's a man of few words. You take a deep breath and continue, your voice now stable and determined, "Now I have…well, I have nothing. That said, I'd rather not give in to self-pity, no matter how tempting it may seem right now. I want to do this – to join your op. I want to move on, to focus solely on bringing these terrorists to justice." 

You feel out of breath, but also filled with adrenaline and passion. You bite your lip; wait another two seconds before opening your mouth and saying, "I want in."

And even before he answers, you know he'll say yes. A wide-lettered affirmative that will give you a reason to keep living. A reason to work through this debilitating grief. You'll do it, although the task seems staggering and impossible. You'll do it first for Emma, second for justice…and third for yourself. 

Because you won't let them win. You won't let it destroy you.______

__


End file.
